When foam finally flows over the edge of the second cup, she holds it out to me. I grab it and follow her past the black granite island, around some guys from the lacrosse team doing a group chug, through the open kitchen, and onto the thick, white living-room carpet.
I don’t see Jolene at first. I’m too busy trying to follow Kris, who slips easily between arms and behind backs while I stumble and shove to keep up without spilling too much beer. We’re snaking along a wall covered with two huge, white canvases when I catch a flash of Jolene’s honey-colored skin on the opposite side of the room. She’s sitting sideways in a corner of the oversize ivory sectional. A corner that used to fit me, Bella, and Kris too. Now it only seems big enough for Jolene, who tucks her shoeless feet beneath her, props her elbow on the back of the couch, and trips and trails her fingertips along the leather. A small audience of second-tier friends and underclassmen squeezes onto the surrounding cushions, gasping and giggling every time she speaks.
I quit fighting to move forward. Kris gets swallowed by sweaters, button-downs, and sequined tops. I stop. Someone crashes into me, spills, curses. The circle of girls behind me keeps laughing and expanding until my thighs are pressed up against the glass coffee table separating me from Jolene. I’m getting pushed, squeezed. I feel like I can’t breathe.
Her hand over my mouth. Her fingers pinching my nose.
On the couch, Jolene smiles, sweeps her dark hair back to show the hint of auburn underneath and the slide of her cream-colored shirt off her bare shoulder. She throws back her head and laughs.
I kicked her under the blanket. She pressed her hand harder against my lips and laughed.
Someone knocks into me from behind, and my knees, which have gone soft, give way. I drop my cup and slap my palms against the glass table to stop myself from crashing into it. I keep my head down, not wanting to see all those eyes on me; but when I remember to breathe—when I finally sneak a peek up—the only eyes I see are Jolene’s. They’re glassy. She’s staring at me.
The gash on my palm hadn’t healed by our next sleepover. It was the fall of freshman year. We spilled our wishes. Kris and Bella fell asleep, zipped in bags on the floor. Jolene and I pulled the covers over our heads—she’d scored us the bed again—and traded lines of our story.
“Your turn,” Jolene said. Our mingled breath made the small cave under the comforter hot and wet. Jolene turned to me, expectant.
I shifted under the sheets and smoothed the tiny braids tugging at my scalp. Jolene had woven them for me. “Two little girls all alone in the world, who woke from their beds and decided to live.”
Jolene grabbed my hand and squeezed. I flinched when my scab cracked.
Her turn. “Two little girls all alone in the world, who dove in so deep, they grew gills to breathe.”
“Ew,” I whisper-hissed. “Gills?”
“Just two little slits,” she said, tracing a line under my jaw. “One here”—she lifted her finger to the other side, pressed it into the soft skin—“and one here.” She paused, leaving her finger on my neck for an extra second. When she took it away, she traced the same lines on herself. “We’d have to hold our breath at first,” she said, “for a long time. And then, there they’d be.” Her voice trailed off.
I propped up the covers, which had come to rest on our foreheads. Usually when Jolene went into her own world like this, I let her go. We fell asleep, and the night ended. This time she turned to me, wide-eyed and energized.
“Bet I can hold my breath longer than you.” A sly smile crept across her lips, which glistened, even in the darkness.
From outside our cover cave: a cough, the soft scritch of sleeping bags shifting.
“Bet you can’t,” I said. Jolene only played games she could win, but this time she didn’t have all the information. Before she’d moved to town, I’d taken a lifeguarding prep course at the Y. I had experience. “You say when.”
I pressed my cheek to the pillow. We lay face-to-face. My heart thumped.
She smiled and narrowed her eyes. “One, two.” She took a deep breath. I felt her chest push out, moving the sheets between us as she sucked in a slow, steady stream of air. Jolene let the last word out quick—“Three”—and pressed her lips together.
We stared at each other. The first few seconds were easy. She smiled at me. I smiled back. I couldn’t laugh or I’d lose all my breath. I had to concentrate. Soon I felt a dull pressure in my chest, but I was still okay. A few seconds more. My fingers and feet tingled. Jolene blinked, her eyes watered. She was going to take a breath first, I knew it. I was going to win this time. But somehow she kept her mouth shut, her body still. The pressure in my chest got worse. I heard my heart in my head. My lips fought me, but I knit them together. And just as I saw Jolene’s mouth begin to open, just as I was about to celebrate my victory, her hands shot toward my face—one over my mouth, the other pinching my nose.
I pulled at her hands. She tightened the fingers pinching my nose and pressed her palm to my mouth. I felt the rough bump of her scab against my lips.
My chest was pain, my head a dull beat, my lungs fighting for the air they needed. The only thing I had left was my feet. I kicked her under the blanket. She pressed her hand harder against my lips and laughed.
CHAPTER 4
A VISE GRIP on my arm pulls me up and back, into the stream of people on their way from the kitchen to the basement.
“You okay?” Kris shouts. The music has gotten louder somehow, and the people packed even tighter. Someone’s sweat-soaked shirt slides across my arm, an errant elbow knocks me into a group of giggling junior girls.
“Yeah,” I say, steadying myself with Kris’s help. It’s not only arms and backs and chests closing in around me. It’s memories. I’m letting them get to me.
I take a deep breath and run through the blueprint of Bella’s house in my head. The third-floor den and adjoining guest rooms. The second-floor sitting area, square and backed by an oval window. The corridor of white pile carpet, opening to bedrooms and an office, spilling down the stairs to where I am. The living room. I let out my breath and look around.
Everyone’s holding a cup, swaying a little too much, singing off-key, wearing that drunk sheen. It’s a party. Everyone’s buzzed and having fun. Except me.
Kris leans in, her lips against my ear so I can hear: “What?”
“Nothing!” I shout, picking up my cup and tugging her forward. But I’m not quick enough. Kris looks past me, sees Jolene. She clenches her jaw for a second, then, just as fast, relaxes it.
Even when we first met, when we were all friends, there was always something between Kris and Jolene: Their conversations carried a certain type of weight. They sat at opposite ends of the room or the table, like opposing magnets. It was as if they’d known each other before. Or as if Kris could see, from our intermediate school view, what it would be like in high school: the two of us dropping away as Jolene ran, fast and light, toward senior year, armed and ready to storm it like a castle.
“Really?” Kris asks, raising her eyebrows and flicking her chin in Jolene’s direction. “We just got here.”
“I thought you didn’t even want to come,” I tease.
“Right. I didn’t want to come. But now we’re here. Might as well enjoy it.” Kris holds up her cup.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I say, glancing back at Jolene.
I press my cheek against Kris’s: “Let’s go!”
We link arms and dive back into the thick mix of people. This time I’m not struggling to keep up.
Kris and I slip through a door that looks more like a crack in the wall and stop at the top of the stairs to take in the cool, stale basement air. Anything is better than the stink of the packed party. It’s only after a minute or so, when we finally shake the scent of sweat and beer and breath, that we catch a whiff of it. It’s faint, but it’s definitely there. The earthy, sweet, smoky reek of weed.
“Smells like the man cave is in working order,
” Kris says.
“Indeed it does.”
“Well, you’re the addict. Take the lead.”
“Please,” I say, stepping in front of her, “no one’s addicted to pot.” Kris is constantly giving me shit for my “pot addiction,” which, roughly translated into reality, means I’ve tried it a few times—enough to know I like it better than beer.
Being high makes me superaware of where I end and everything else begins—what separates things. Drawn lines. Soft skin. It’s like being inside one of my maps. Everything is contained in its rightful place. Safe.
Being drunk messes with my edges. The one time I drank a fifth of clear liquor at a party freshman year, I sat on a ratty couch in some senior’s basement trying to stop spinning. I pictured the map above my bed, which usually helps, but the borders morphed and the lots bled together, pepto pink mixing with puke green. I felt like I might spill all over everybody. Or they might spill all over me. Until Jolene curled up next to me and spun stories that made everything sparkly.
I force my feet down the floating stairs—another one of Bella’s mom’s custom designs—and into the light of the long, open basement. It’s not empty down here, but it’s obvious that only a few people know how to find the vanishing door. I keep my eyes straight ahead and stride quickly across the cream carpet.
Two little girls who decided to live.
“Wow. You’re really jonesing,” Kris says when she catches up.
“Stop being all condescending, Miss Pack-a-Day,” I say. Kris hip-checks me. “Anyway, it’s not like I’m actually going to smoke with these people. I just want to sit down, and the man cave is probably our best shot.”
“You can admit you’re trying to find Hudson, you know.”
“Okay. I’m trying to find Hudson.” But is he trying to find me? Or is he still angry? Either way, if he’s here, he’ll be in the cave. Hudson likes tucked-away places.
The closer we get, the louder my heart hammers in my chest. But this time, instead of taking deep breaths, reciting street names, or running layouts in my head to lower the volume, I let it crash. (Bang. Smash.)
We’re almost through the exercise room, only a few steps away from the cave, when Bella busts through the doorway, smoke streaming behind her. We slam into each other. I spill what’s left of my beer on her chest, and it immediately drips into the deep V of her shirt. But it doesn’t faze her. Nothing does.
“So that’s the kind of party it’s going to be?” Bella asks, looking down her own cleavage. “Okay then! Guess you guys do have some catching up to do.” She winks, swipes a finger across her chest, then touches her finger to her tongue. “You guys are drinking from the keg? You should ditch that crap and get something from in there.” She motions behind her. “You know where, right? Just don’t spend too long with the riffraff. They’re like zombies, you know? They bite you once and you’re toast. And you guys are not allowed to be toast! I want both of you upstairs for late night. I’ve got to work the party for a little—you know how it is.” Not really. “But you better stay for after hours, okay? You promised!” She blows us a kiss and shuffles off toward the stairs.
“Late night?” I ask.
“After hours?” Kris replies.
“Doubtful,” we say together. A few hours from now, when this house has been properly trashed by the entire senior class, and Bella and Jolene are having their postparty recap in the kitchen and clinking glasses to how popular and fabulous they both are, we’ll be long gone. And not just because we have to make curfew.
Coming to Bella’s party is one thing. Sticking around to rehash old memories is another. I don’t need to remember what I confessed when Jolene asked me what I wanted to be. I’ve never forgotten.
I push open the door to the cave, which has been leaking smoke and music since Bella’s exit.
“Beware the zombies,” I say.
“Will do.” Kris follows me into the haze.
Between the dimmed lights and the clouds of smoke, it’s hard to see anything at first, but after a few seconds I get used to it. I find the pool table in the center of the room and the jukebox on the far wall. It’s filled with Led Zeppelin and the Who and a bunch of other music that Bella’s dad listens to. Cal’s behind the wet bar, talking everybody up, as usual, and the rest of the cave dwellers look like they’re sunk and stuck in the brown leather couches that line the other two walls. Every once in a while the wrought-iron door in the corner opens and a cold breeze from the backyard blows in, carrying tobacco smoke with it. Because even though you can smoke up in here, you can’t smoke cigs, which is this rule everyone has always seemed to agree on but that never made any sense to me.
Since there’s a game on the pool table, Kris and I stand on the side and wait for winners. A few minutes later she’s shifting from foot to foot, checking her cell, and sighing. Kris might be a natural with the crowded-keg-dance-party set, but she gets antsy in closed spaces like the cave.
“Why don’t you grab a cue?” I motion to the stacked rack behind her.
She flips her cell in her hand and shakes her head. “Way too close to a weapon. Especially when your best nonfriend is sitting within striking distance.”
My nonfriend. Hudson. He must be on the couch behind me, the one near the bar. I want to see him. But I also want to ignore him. For all the times he walked by me in the hall like I wasn’t there. For all the days he never gave me a chance to explain.
Kris checks her phone. This time it’s glowing.
“’Bout time,” she says, tapping her thumbs against the small, bright screen. “Jim’s here. He’s meeting me in the garden.” Kris sends the text, glances over my right shoulder, where I imagine Hudson must be, then turns her attention back to me. “You want to come with?”
Kris doesn’t really want me to join her and Jim, but she doesn’t want to leave me with Hudson, either. Not after what she watched me go through last year, when he hooked up with Jolene and stopped talking to me. Kris’s phone buzzes. Her eyes flash back to the screen.
“It’s cool,” I say. “Go.”
Kris hands me her beer, then slides a smoke from her soft pack into the V of her fingers and lifts it to her lips. But I can still see her frowning.
“Okay,” she says, stepping past the pool table. “If you insist. Meet me in forty-five minutes. I might even make it home on time.” She sounds like she doesn’t care, but she does. Her parents are cool, but they’re hard-core about curfew. Not that she’s ever given them any reason to be worried. They just have this constant fear that Kris is going to turn into her Phish-following, drugged-out, hippie older sister. Even though Kris doesn’t do any drugs. Not even weed, which barely counts.
“Forty-five it is,” I say, slipping Kris’s cup into my empty one.
Kris gives me a last look and a half smile before she pushes through the wrought-iron door.
Then I’m alone. At a party. With a beer in my hand. I should feel naked and nervous. But I don’t. I feel a twinge instead, behind my heart, where the fear should be. A twinge that lets me know it’s gone. For now. So I do what everyone else is doing. I bring the cup to my lips for a sip, but since I don’t realize how full Kris’s cup is, warm beer splashes over the rim and onto my nose. I lean over, wipe the beer from my face, and laugh. And while my hand is over my open mouth, I see him.
Hudson is sitting on the far couch, staring at me. His mouth is set in a grim line. His fingers spread, clutching the knee of his jeans. I still don’t know whether he’s happy or pissed or what direction he wants this night to go in, but I’ve come this far. I’m not going to stop now. My hand tightens around the cup. It crackles as I cross the room.
When I’m a step away, Hudson breaks our gaze. He looks toward the bar and, with a quick nod, curls a dark hair behind his ear.
I look, too, and catch the last trace of concern fade from Cal’s face as he turns back to his crowd with a cocked eyebrow, a brown bottle, and a joke.
“Can I sit?”
H
udson motions to the empty space next to him.
The seat is a few inches lower than I think, so when I finally sink into it, I fall a bit, spilling even more of my beer. I wipe at the drops on my jeans.
Hudson doesn’t notice. He’s rolling the loose white thread at the knee of his jeans and stealing glances at Cal, who’s setting up the shot glasses at the bar in some kind of pyramid. Cal’s always been a showman. Between him and Bella, this party basically has professional entertainment.
“You and Cal are still close,” I say, figuring it’s a safe place to start. But I know I’m wrong as soon as I see the deep crease form between Hudson’s eyes.
“Some people stick around,” he says. The beer turns sour in my mouth. He’s still angry.
This was a mistake.
I’m about to get up when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I jump in my seat, until I realize it’s just the guy to my left, offering me a hit.
“I’m cool,” I tell him as I take the pipe and pass it to Hudson. He passes it to the girl on his right, who nods yes, takes a huge hit, then proceeds to have a hacking fit, the kind where you cough and cough and cough and can’t catch your breath. She shakes her head and, still coughing, passes it to the next person. When the music changes, Hudson and I speak at the same time.
Me: “I’ll leave you alo—”
Hudson: “Want to get out of here?”
It’s what we always said to escape from parties. Neither of us liked being around so many people. But why would he say it now when, obviously, he’s mad at me? Why would he ask me to talk when he’s been ignoring me for more than a year?
When I don’t answer immediately, Hudson wipes his palm on the knee of his jeans. “I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want to.” He brushes another stray curl from his face and tucks it behind his ear.
I’m still having trouble speaking, but now it’s not because I don’t know what to say. It’s because the words rise up in me too quickly—the explanation I never got to give; the things I wanted to scream the day I saw him walk into school with Jolene, wait at her locker, hold her hand, and pretend his fingers hadn’t run through my hair a week before. I waited, day after day, but I never got a chance to say them. Now they’re as familiar to me as my jeans, and just as worn. But here he is. Right in front of me. And I’m angry, too. I could do it. I could tell him he doesn’t matter to me, that he barely exists, that when I see him, I see nothing at all.
Underneath Everything Page 3
